After a harrowing journey avoiding distracted drivers and road construction, we arrive at my house. T’s truck sits at the curb in the spot Blake always parked.
Pain constricts my chest. Heat blooms behind my eyes, and I blink away the moisture clouding my vision. Once. Twice. At least I saved the break down until I pulled into the driveway.
Which is one thing going my way today.
Smythe pats my thigh, his palm warmer than the hot Texas air and more soothing than a relaxing bath at the end of a hard day. The pain in my eyes eases, tears no longer blossoming like weeds. Some gestures mean more than words.
I squeeze his hand as I drive the car into the garage. A quick hit on the clicker and the door slides shut, sealing us in. Smythe pulls his hand back, the loss of his warmth leaving a cool spot on my thigh.
Damn, I’m all emotional today. No more funerals for me.
Smythe follows me up the garage steps, through the door onto my back porch, then into my kitchen where I pitch my hat on the table.
Did he cast a spell on me? Tears no longer block my vision, but grief lodges in my chest, a writhing ball of expanding pain.
Maybe it was a half-assed spell.
T leans against the doorframe from the kitchen to the living room, arms crossed in that classic she’s-my-twin-and-you’re-not-good-enough-for-her position he takes whenever Smythe is around. You’d think he’d have gotten used to my mentor’s presence, especially since Smythe has saved my ass a couple of times. But apparently ass-saving only stops an ass-whooping and does nothing for male posturing.
Great. I now have two alpha males standing in my kitchen trying to prove who has the bigger biceps.
T breaks the tension by walking to me and gathering me in his arms. I lay my cheek against his chest, and a muted sense of peace creeps around me like a shawl. Touching each other brings a calmness normally missing in our lives. A little odd, but then neither of us could ever be called the poster child for normality.
Our alcoholic parents took pains to ensure we never fit in that category.
Grief leaches from my soul, comforted by the touch of my twin. Until a high-pitched squeal breaks the moment.
“T! You didn’t tell me your sister was coming home so soon.” Jackie, T’s double-D, blonde-bimbo of a girlfriend, sashays into the kitchen and places her hand on his shoulder, breaking our connection.
No more moment of serenity.
“When did you think I was coming home?” I step away from T, and catch a glimpse of what she's wearing.
Or not wearing.
Her sheer teddy barely covers her privates and gives me an unwanted view of her assets. Parading around like a ho on display doesn’t seem to bother her.
I’m a fine one to be talking. The first time I met the Agency, the esteemed group of mages running the minion-finding show, I was dressed in a pair of hooker-short shorts with a tank top and sporting a bedhead ’do. Blame it on Smythe, he kidnapped me without allowing me to change clothes.
At least I had the decency to be embarrassed.
Jackie merely offers me a dim-witted smile and a shrug. Clearly intelligence is not on T’s list of womanly attributes.
My brother turns, eyes flaring as he glimpses Jackie’s choice of outfit. “Babe, go get dressed.”
Her brows knit, gaze drifted down. A hint of red smacks her cheeks. “Oh. I forgot.”
Right. Because air hitting all your parts isn’t a subtle hint about your lack of clothing. Idiot.
“What?” T glares at Smythe as Jackie wanders back to the bedroom.
Smythe raises a brow, a response I’m learning translates to what’s your problem? T, though, takes it as a form of aggression and points a finger at my mentor.
“Don’t ogle my girlfriend.”
“It’s not ogling if the goods are set out on the counter for full display.”
“Okay, okay.” I step between the men, palms held out toward each one. “Jackie can’t help her lack of brains.”
“She’s not stupid,” T growls.
I ignore him. Men blindsided by double-D’s tend to not see the truth.
He takes a step toward Smythe and freezes, a pale cast slipping beneath the tan of his skin. Sweat beads at top of his forehead as his eyes widen.
Both Smythe and I turn to where T stares. Nothing except the counter and table. Which I cleaned before leaving for the funeral. No dirty dishes to cause his what-the-hell reaction. No visible reason at all. Which left the not so visible reasons.
Ever since That Day long ago, T freaks when he sees a ghost.
And he sees a lot of dead spirits.
According to him, they are all around us.
I grab his arm. “What—” but the sentence dies on my lips as a presence takes shape, the outline filling in with transparent colors, forming features as recognizable to me as my own face.
Blake.
Chapter Four
“Fuck.” T swallows. “I knew I should’ve come back with iron filings.”
“What?” Smythe looks at the empty table, back to us, back to Blake.
I point. “Blake?”
The ghost nods.
“Fuck,” T wipes a hand across his forehead. “You’re supposed to stay in the grave.”
Blake shrugs and his lips move, but I can’t hear him. My heart jumps, a quick-step stealing my breath. Blake returned to me. A shot of joy bounces through my veins, only to come to a stop at the realization he was not alive.
Still dead. Dead, dead, dead.
So why can I see him? The only time I’ve ever seen a ghost was when I first put on the justitia at the hospital, after the bracelet appeared in my pocket. If memory serves, I touched T then, too.
I drop my hand, and Blake vanishes. Touch T. Blake reappears.
What the hell?
“Careful?” T’s eyes narrow, color returning to his face. “Yeah, you better be careful, buddy. Or I’ll put iron filings and salt around the house. See if you get in then.”
Blake shoots T the double bird. Something he never would have done while alive. Very few people choose to mess with T. But then, what can my brother do to a spirit besides talk to it? Guess Blake feels more secure as a ghost.
Gah. What the hell am I thinking? You know you live a screwed up life when you see a ghost and wonder about its confidence issues instead of run screaming from the room.
“Careful?” Smythe narrows his eyes, gazing to where Blake stands, searching for the ghost. “Why?”
“Fuck. I’m not gonna talk to him anymore than I have to.” T crosses his arms, knocking my grip loose.
I place my hand on his shoulder. Less chance of him knocking it off. No way am I going to miss seeing Blake. Even if he is transparent.
“I’m going to ask. You’re going to oblige.” Smythe’s tone brooks no argument. “Deal?”
After a few seconds of staring, T nods. For the first time in a long time, he’s not opposed to speaking to a ghost. Probably because he knows the ghost.
“Fine. But you owe me one.” T stares at Blake. “Did you hear the question, or do you need me to state it?”
Since T doesn’t repeat Smythe’s question, I assume Blake heard it. Blake’s lips move in reply.
Blake closes his mouth and glances my way. Please. This time I see the word on his lips.
“Please, what, T?” I shake T’s shoulder. “What did he say?”
“Geez, Gin, give me a chance to answer. He says he can’t cross over until he knows you are safe. He wants us to make sure you stay safe. Begged Smythe and me. Something bad is going down, but he’s not sure where or when. Or who.”
“That’s a shitload of help.” Smythe leans against the counter and perfects his glare on T. “Why does he think something’s about to happen if he doesn’t know anything about it?”
T shrugs, faces Blake. “You heard him.”
Blake’s lips move with sound only T hears. Again, he looks at me, mouths the word, Please.
“He reiterates fo
r us to protect Gin.” T clears his throat. “As far as what’s going to happen. His spirit was on its way to the next plane when he heard voices talking about evil in Dallas and how the new demon-slayer was going to get her ass whooped. So he requested to return and warn us.”
“And they let him?” Smythe raises a brow.
“Why wouldn’t they? Ghosts often walk this plane to assist the living. Even if most people don’t see them.”
“Who spoke?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“T, tell him I’m sorry.” Three sets of eyes focus on me. “Tell him”—I swallow the lump breaking my voice, clear my throat—“Tell him I came but was too late. I’m so sorry.”
A hot press of tears clouds my vision, pressure knots a tight band around my chest. Blake looks at me, and his lips turn into a sad smile. I know, he mouths. I saw. Stay safe, Gin.
Then he vanishes as if someone hit the off button on his remote control.
My tears disappear on a shot of adrenaline as I give T’s shoulder a shake. “Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.” T’s brows slam over his eyes.
“He vanished?” Smythe squints as if that will help him find a disappearing ghost.
“Said, Stay safe, Gin, and poofed away.” I swipe a hand across my damp cheeks. “What do you think happened? Is he okay?”
“Is who okay?” Jackie walks into the room, teddy off, clothes in place. Thank God.
“Nothing,” Smythe and I say together. No sense causing Jackie to think about ghosts. It might blow what little mind she has.
“Honey, what’s wrong? You don’t look good.” She wraps an arm around T as I take a step back.
She might be a blonde bimbo, but at least she cares about my brother. Or pretends to. Nah, deceit would require intelligence. She definitely cares.
“Nothing, babe. Don’t worry about it.”
His brushing off her concern scratches like fingernails down the chalkboard of my spine. Do men actually think women are too stupid to deal with things?
Oh, wait. I forgot who he’s talking to. Jackie probably doesn’t understand the subtleties of being patronized. She smiles at T like he’s the best thing in her life.
Maybe he is. Scary thought.
Almost as scary as the demon at the medical school.
Or a disappearing Blake.
“I need my laptop.” Smythe brushes past Jackie into the living room.
I follow him. Hacking into the DPD beats watching my twin and his double-D wonder make googly eyes at each other. Yuck.
Smythe grabs his laptop off the coffee table, flops on the couch and pops open the lid. His fingers dance across the keys. I ease into the spot beside him, my attention drawn not by the screen, but the clash of pots and pans coming from the kitchen.
Holy crap. Jackie is placing cookware on the stove like she intends to poison, I mean, cook us dinner. Or burn the house down. Does she even know how to operate a stove? I’m halfway off the couch before I see T standing beside her.
I’m fairly certain he won’t burn the house down. At least not by fixing dinner.
“What?” Smythe’s fingers stop their flight of the bumblebee parody, his gaze drawn to mine.
“Jackie’s cooking dinner.”
He glances toward the kitchen, eyes wide. “Should we stop her?”
“T’s in there with her. Who knows, maybe she understands operating a stove.”
He snorts. Turns back to the laptop. “Don’t get your hopes up.” A couple of taps, and he points at the screen. “Ah-ha. Here we go. The case file’s already been opened. The grad student, Mason Tinkle, works in a lab operated by Professor Dan Sheevers. No mention of what the good professor works on.”
“Wonder if that’s the same Dr. Dan Sheevers I met at Blake’s funeral.”
“The one you saw dying?”
“Yep.”
“Says here Dr. Sheevers wasn’t at the school when the crime occurred.”
“Yeah, ’cuz he was at the funeral. A little hard to be in two places at the same time.”
“Provided it was the same guy. Maybe we need to go talk to this professor.”
Just what I want to do. “You mean return to the med school?”
“You think he’s there or at home?”
“Probably back at the school. Most professors spend more time in their labs than their houses. Especially if one of their students was killed.”
“Right.” He glances at the kitchen. “Should we sample the cooking or leave now?”
“Let me change, and we can leave. These heels are killing me.”
I slip the shoes off and stand. Ah. Freedom. Why do cute shoes always hurt my feet?
Carrying the shoes, I slip into my bedroom and close the door.
“Blake?” My whisper echoes in the afternoon shadows, a plea for another glimpse, another chance.
Nothing answers except for the whine of the overtaxed air conditioner.
I drop the shoes on the floor and fall onto the bed, not bothering to conceal the warm rush of tears falling down my cheeks. No one here to care if my mascara trails off my chin.
Why did Blake disappear? Was he in trouble? Do ghosts even get in trouble?
Why does no one but me seem to care where he went?
A knock on the door startles me from my thoughts. I swipe a hand across my face. So much for no one seeing my mascara run. “Come in.”
Smythe shoves the door open. “What’s taking…oh.” The slight tint on his cheeks speaks his embarrassment louder than words. He takes a step into my room, closing the door behind him. One heartbeat later, his warm palm lands on my shoulder. “I’m sure he’s fine.”
I sniff. Dash my mascara stained hands on my dress. Yet another use for a little black dress.
“You have no idea, do you?”
He clears his throat. “Ghosts aren’t my specialty.”
“Find anything on your computer about Blake?”
“Not about Blake.”
“Did you even try?” I shoot him my best glare. Which works better without red-rimmed eyes and watered down makeup.
The quick pat on my shoulder is a Smythe gesture for let’s calm down. Knowing I can now read his mind from his actions fails to bring comfort.
“As far as I know incorporeal beings cannot be destroyed. Corporeal ones can. Focusing on Mason Tinkle and the student he killed are our best bet to stop what’s happening. You heard Blake. He has no idea who spoke or what’s going to happen.”
He’s not very helpful floated through my mind. At least Smythe had the decency not to speak it aloud. Common sense dictates I shouldn’t be upset by his thoughts.
Not unless I want him to be upset with me for mine.
Scary idea.
“What if you’re wrong about ghosts being destroyed? What if Blake is hurt?”
His brow drops, his jaw tensing. Right. Male mentors are never wrong. Silly me for forgetting.
A second later, his expression softens, sympathizes.
He pats my shoulder twice as if the action gives him patience. His sigh drifts on a gentle brush of air. “We’re not going anywhere, are we, until you get your questions answered.”
Amazing. Someone besides T who understands me. Even Blake took months before he learned to read me.
“No one seems to care.”
Another shoulder pat and he steps away, flopping onto my bed, hands resting on his knees. “His concern is admirable, but his information is sketchy. And despite what your brother says, ghosts might be plentiful, but they aren’t so direct.”
“How would you know, ‘Mr. Ghosts Aren’t My Specialty’? You couldn’t even see him, let alone talk with him.”
“How often does T talk with the spirit world?”
My fingers twist in the folds of my dress. Used to be all the time. Until one ghost helped by offering advice. “Not too much lately.”
“So how would he know? The Agency had a ghost talker who wrote manuals on the subject. It would
do your brother good to learn instead of fearing.”
“Don’t let T hear you say he fears anything.”
“If it walks like a duck…”
I shake my head. Smythe has a point, but I can’t change T’s mind when I understand where he’s coming from. “If you get out I’ll change into something more comfortable.”
“Don’t make it too comfortable. We’re going back to the med school as detectives. Try to look professional.”
“Always.”
His raised brows and quick sweep of my body sparks the memory of me appearing before the Agency for the first time wearing sexy sleep shorts and a barely there tank.
“Hey, that was your fault.” I point a finger at him. “You kidnapped me without giving me a chance to change clothes.”
He smiles, lips twitching as if he fights not to laugh. “Get dressed. Just dump the hat this time.”
With that parting shot, he’s off the bed and out the door, leaving behind a mixed scent of spice and man. Yum. Too bad he’s my boss.
And my boyfriend’s funeral was today. What kind of a horrible person am I to lust after one man while crying over another?
But it’s always been like that with Smythe. Instead of reading his emotions when I touch him, I usually get a shot of do-me-now. Not sure which is worse.
At the moment, it’s embarrassment over wanting him tied to the bed instead of leaving the room.
Embarrassment I can live with. Him seeing the fantasy of us in my mind, not so much.
Time for another practice session of keeping my mind-reading mentor out of my mind.
****
A few minutes later, I walk into the living room dressed in tan pants and a white short-sleeved dress top, my hair pulled back in a bun. Which is the only acceptable way to wear hair after subjecting it to a tight hat on a hot day. A fresh application of cover-up on my neck hides Zagan’s mark.
Item number one on the list of things to hide from my mentor.
Speaking of mentors…mine relaxes on the couch, shit-kickers propped on the coffee table, laptop across his thighs, a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead.
Due to the barely-there A/C or fear of Jackie’s kitchen skills?
Taking a deep breath, I face the kitchen. Whew. No evidence of a fire. “Hey, T.”
Demon Kissed (A Demon Huntress Novel) Page 3